Heathen/Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  The corpse of her husband.

  ‘No,’ she said again, tears pouring down her cheeks. She studied his features, the awful gashes in his forehead and cheeks. She saw how the blood had soaked his jacket and shirt.

  So much blood.

  ‘Is it your husband, Mrs Ward?’ Mackenzie asked.

  Donna nodded and reached for her husband, touching one of his lacerated cheeks.

  Jesus, he was so cold.

  His skin was white, those areas that weren’t discoloured by bruises or hideous cuts, as if all the blood had been drained from him. She smoothed one of his eyebrows, then touched his lips with her index finger.

  So cold.

  She touched her fingertips to her own lips and kissed them, then pressed those fingers to his cold lips once more.

  She shook her head again, allowing herself to be eased back by the WPC, allowing herself to be guided towards the door.

  She saw Jordan replace the sheet.

  It was then that she collapsed.

  Five

  How many tears could the human eye produce?

  As Donna sat sobbing she wondered.

  How much pain was it possible to feel at the death of a man you loved? Could pain be measured, calibrated and categorised like anything else?

  Chris would have known.

  She felt a hand clasp hers; it seemed to exude strength and feeling.

  The nurse who sat beside her was in her mid-thirties

  (maybe a year or two older than Chris)

  and she had the most piercing blue eyes Donna had ever seen. But in those eyes there was only concern now. The small room had yellow walls, two or three threadbare chairs and posters which bore slogans like

  SAVE THE NHS

  OVERWORKED DOCTORS ARE A DANGER TO EVERYONE: CUT HOURS

  On the small table beside her there were tea cups; one was still steaming.

  ‘Drink it,’ said the nurse, holding the cup towards Donna, gripping her other hand firmly.

  Donna looked at her, then at the WPC who sat opposite. She took the cup and sipped the tea.

  ‘Good girl,’ said the nurse, still holding her hand.

  Donna swallowed a couple of mouthfuls then put the cup down. She sucked in a deep breath, as if to replace air that had been knocked from her, then sank back in the chair, one hand over her face, her eyes closed. Her sobs subsided into a series of quivering inhalations and exhalations. She could feel how wet her own cheeks were.

  ‘Oh God,’ she whispered, swallowing hard, aware for the first time of the heavy silence in the room and of the ticking of a clock above her.

  11.06 p.m.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, looking at the nurse and the WPC in turn.

  ‘You fainted and we brought you in here,’ the policewoman told her quietly.

  ‘Oh God,’ Donna murmured again. The words were like a litany.

  The room was lit by a sixty-watt bulb that cast thick black shadows. Outside, beyond the closed curtains, she could hear the wind. The hospital seemed very quiet. Donna sat for interminable minutes just staring ahead, wondering why her mind was so blank. It was like a blackboard wiped clean of chalk, all feelings wiped away. She just felt a terrible emptiness, so intense it was almost physical, as if a hole had been gouged in her soul. Could so much emotion be expended that a person was left without feeling? When Donna looked down at her own body she saw only a shell, with nothing left inside. Just a husk, devoid and emptied of feeling.

  She put down the teacup, touched the nurse gently on the back of the hand and released her grip, resting both arms on the worn arms of the chair. Tilting her head back she closed her eyes and took another deep, racking breath.

  ‘How did it happen?’ she asked finally, her voice low.

  The policewoman looked at her and then at the nurse, as if for permission to speak.

  ‘How was Chris killed?’ Donna had no recollection of Cobb telling her about the accident.

  ‘A car crash,’ the WPC said quietly.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘I’m not really sure, Mrs Ward,’ the policewoman told her apologetically. ‘I wasn’t on duty when it happened.’

  ‘Is there anyone here who could tell me?’ Donna asked, smiling thinly. ‘Please.’

  The policewoman got to her feet, excused herself and slipped out of the door, closing it behind her.

  The clock continued to tick loudly above Donna’s head.

  ‘You must have done this so many times,’ she said to the nurse, ‘comforted the grieving relatives.’ Her voice cracked and a tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away hurriedly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ the nurse told her, clutching her arm warmly. ‘Don’t apologise for the way you feel. I was the same when my father died; I was saying sorry to everyone. Sorry for being a nuisance, sorry for crying all the time. Then I realized that it didn’t matter. You have a right to your grief. Don’t be ashamed of it.’

  Donna smiled, despite her tears. She touched the nurse’s hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  The door of the room opened and the WPC re-entered. Mackenzie was with her. He nodded awkwardly to Donna before sitting down opposite her.

  ‘You wanted some information about your husband’s death, Mrs Ward?’ he said.

  She nodded.

  ‘The crash happened some time this afternoon,’ the DC said. ‘We think at about four o’clock. His body was brought here for identification. It was easier to reach you.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘His brakes failed, as far as we can tell. He hit a wall.’

  Donna felt that feeling of despair rising once more like an unstoppable tide.

  ‘Was anyone else hurt in the crash?’ she wanted to know.

  Mackenzie hesitated, licking his lips self-consciously.

  ‘I’m afraid there was another death. We ... er ... we found another body in the car with your husband. A young woman. Her name was Suzanne Regan.’

  Donna sat forward in her chair, a frown creasing her brow.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she murmured. ‘And she was killed, too?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. Did you know her?’

  ‘She worked for my husband’s publishers. I don’t know why she would have been with him, though.’

  ‘She obviously knew your husband quite well?’

  ‘They worked together,’ Donna said, her confusion growing. ‘Well, not really worked together. Like I said, she worked for his publishers. She was only a secretary, as far as I know. What makes you think she knew him?’

  ‘Well, she was in the car with him, for one thing, Mrs Ward. I suppose he could have been giving her a lift home, something like that.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ Donna snapped, sucking in a deep breath.

  Mackenzie clasped his hands together and looked evenly at the distraught woman.

  ‘One of the reasons we couldn’t identify your husband after the crash was because he had no ID on his person. No driver’s licence, no credit cards, no cheque book. Nothing.’

  ‘He always got me to carry his credit cards for him,’ she protested.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mrs Ward. He did have credit cards and his cheque book but he wasn’t carrying them. After we’d taken the bodies from the wreckage we found your husband’s cheque book and credit cards in Suzanne Regan’s handbag.’

  Six

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ Donna demanded angrily.

  ‘I’m not trying to say anything, Mrs Ward. You merely asked me for some information and I gave it to you,’ Mackenzie told her.

  ‘I want to see her,’ Donna said flatly.

  ‘That’s impossible, Mrs Ward.’

  ‘You could be wrong about her. It might not be Suzanne Regan. I’ve seen her; I could identify her.’

  ‘That’s already been done. Her brother confirmed it earlier.’

  There was an awkward silence, which was finally broken
by Donna.

  ‘Why was she carrying his credit cards?’

  ‘We don’t know that, Mrs Ward,’ Mackenzie said, almost apologetically.

  ‘What else did you find in her bag? Anything that belonged to my husband?’ There was a trace of anger in her voice now.

  ‘I can’t disclose information like that, Mrs Ward.’

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘There was a photo of your husband in Miss Regan’s purse, and we found two letters from your husband to Miss Regan in her bag as well.’

  ‘Where are they?’ Donna demanded.

  ‘Her brother took them. He took all her belongings with him.’

  ‘And my husband? Did he have anything of hers?’

  ‘Not as far as we can tell. There was a card - it looks like a business card - in his wallet, but it was blank apart from a phone number and the initial S written on it.’

  ‘Suzanne,’ she hissed, her jaws clenched.

  The silence descended again and Donna sat back in the chair. Her mind was spinning. First dread, then shock, now confusion. What was next? What other revelations were to be revealed to her?

  Why had Suzanne Regan been in the car with him?

  Why had she had his photo in her bag? Why was she carrying his credit cards?

  Why?

  Letters. From Ward to her.

  She raised a hand to her face once more, covering her eyes.

  ‘I will need to speak to you again, Mrs Ward,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Once everything has been taken care of.’

  ‘You mean after the funeral,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He moved towards the door, pausing before he left. ‘I’m very sorry.’ And he was gone.

  ‘I want to go home,’ Donna said, her voice quivering. She sounded like a child, a lost child. And lost she most certainly was. She felt more alone than she could ever remember.

  Seven

  She’d been alone in the house often, but until now Donna had never felt truly lonely.

  The silence and the desolation crowded in on her almost palpably. The clock on the wall opposite showed 1.32 a.m. She cradled the mug of tea in her hands and sat at the breakfast bar, head lowered. The central heating was turned up to full and Donna was seated close to a radiator, but she still felt that ever-present chill. She wondered if it would ever leave her.

  The policewoman had offered to stay with her for the night, to call a relative. A doctor at the hospital had recommended sleeping pills. She had declined all the offers, accepting only the one to drive her home around midnight.

  Home.

  Even the word had an empty ring. How could it be home without Chris there? She sniffed back a tear then thought about what the nurse had said: ‘You have a right to your grief’. It was one of the few things from that interminable evening she did remember.

  That, and Mackenzie’s revelations that her husband had been in the car with another woman when he’d been killed.

  Donna thought how her mind was trying to dismiss this particular piece of knowledge now in the same way as she had tried to shut herself off from the possibility that her husband was dead.

  Another woman?

  There was an answer, there had to be. There had to be a reason why Suzanne Regan had been in the car with her husband when he died. Had to be a reason why she was carrying his credit cards and cheque book in her handbag. Had to be a reason why she had two letters from him, and a photo.

  There had to be a reason other than the most obvious one, that they were involved somehow.

  Involved.

  What a pleasing euphemism. It sounded so much more civilized to say that Christopher Ward, her dead husband, had been involved with another woman. So much more civilized than saying he was having an affair.

  Was that what she was trying to deny now?

  First his death, now his infidelity.

  For now she had only nagging doubts, doubts which became more tangible the more she considered the matter. She got to her feet and wandered out of the kitchen, holding her mug of tea, snapping off the lights as she went. She walked into the hall, her footfalls soft on the carpet as she headed for the sitting room. She pushed open the door, flicked on the lights and the room was illuminated.

  It seemed no more hospitable than the kitchen had done.

  Over the fireplace hung the framed covers of three of Ward’s books.

  He’d written fifteen novels in the last twelve years, each one a massive bestseller. Two had been turned into badly-made and unsuccessful films, but he’d been well paid for the rights; Ward had washed his hands of the adaptations and continued writing.

  How long ago had he met Suzanne Regan?

  Donna sat in the chair where he always used to sit and where he would never sit again.

  Never.

  She gazed across the room at the television and saw herself reflected in the blank screen. There were videos beneath the set, her husband’s chief form of relaxation.

  When he was alive.

  Donna felt a tear roll down her cheek.

  Had he described the house to Suzanne Regan?

  Donna got to her feet and walked out of the sitting-room, leaving it in darkness. Back across the hall she walked, to the dining-room with its large dark wood table and its bookcases where Ward’s own books were displayed. She took one from a shelf and turned it over, studying the photo on the back, running one index finger over it. He had been an attractive man, It was hard to believe that this was the same man whose face she had seen earlier, gashed and bloodied by the crash. She studied his features carefully, the steely blue eyes, the shoulder-length brown hair.

  Was that what had attracted Suzanne Regan?

  Donna replaced the book, still crying softly, aware that she would never see that face again in life, never feel the touch of his hands. The unbearable chill seemed to close tightly round her, like a freezing glove.

  It followed her into every room.

  In the bathroom she touched his razor and ran her thumb across the blade, scarcely aware that she cut the pad. She watched blood well up from the small gash, forming a globule before running down past the first knuckle.

  Every room she walked into and looked around, she picked out the objects which were Ward’s, objects which made her think of him even more strongly. And the more she thought about him, the stronger the pain became. The chasm in her soul expanded with every recollection.

  She paused at the door to his office.

  Her hand quivered over the door handle.

  She couldn’t enter it.

  The memories were piled high in there, as high as the copies of his manuscripts. As high as the filing trays, filled with their letters and notepads.

  She closed her eyes and pushed the door open.

  In the dull light from the desk lamp she gazed around. One half of the room was occupied by two huge bookcases, the other by his desk. On part of the desk sat a typewriter, an old portable manual model. Ward had never invested in a WP; he’d never found the need to fill his room with technological gadgetry. He wrote long-hand, then typed. It was as simple as that.

  Beside the typewriter were loose sheets of notepaper with hastily scribbled notes. She saw a dictionary, a thesaurus, the pocket tape-recorder she had bought for him one Christmas. The filing cabinets and drawers remained shut, their secrets hidden from her.

  Donna noticed that the small clock on the desk had stopped, its hands frozen and still.

  Like Chris.

  She flicked off the light and closed the door behind her, walking into their bedroom. The effort of getting undressed seemed too great; she sat down on the edge of the bed, her head bowed as if under some enormous weight. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, her quiet sobs loud in the stillness of the bedroom. Grief she thought she had expended at the hospital now seemed to crowd in on her. She fell back on the bed, her legs drawn up to her chest, and lay in that foetal position, her body quivering as she cried.

  The darkness outs
ide was impenetrable but it was radiant compared to the gloom in her soul.

  And she knew this was only the beginning.

  Eight

  A dream.

  It had to be a dream.

  She heard the sound but thought it was part of her subconscious. The persistent two-tone bell.

  She sat up quickly, her eyes wide and staring, red-rimmed. It was no dream. Daylight poured in through the open curtains of the bedroom. The ringing of the doorbell was virtually unabated now, occasionally interspersed with the banging of the brass knocker.

  Donna put both hands to her face and felt the stiffness in her neck and shoulders, the beginning of a headache.

  The ringing continued. And the banging.

  Donna finally swung herself off the bed and moved mechanically across the landing and down the stairs. She paused beside the front door, she put one eye to the spy-hole and recognised the figure outside. She pulled open the door.

  ‘I thought there was something wrong ...’ Jackie Quinn began. Then, as she looked at Donna, she realized that there was. Something terribly wrong.

  Donna stepped away from the door, allowing Jackie into the hallway.

  ‘Donna, what’s wrong? What is it? You look terrible,’ Jackie said quickly, shocked by her friend’s appearance.

  ‘What time is it?’ Donna mumbled quietly.

  ‘Sod the time,’ Jackie rasped. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Chris,’ Donna said, tears already forming in her eyes. ‘Jackie, he’s dead.’

  The two women embraced, Donna clasping her friend to her with a strength born of desperation. Jackie could feel tears soaking into the shoulder of her blouse, could feel Donna trembling helplessly in her grasp. And she too felt that awful sense that someone had punched her in the stomach, knocked the wind from her. Shock struck like a clenched fist.

  Jackie guided her weeping friend towards the kitchen and sat her down, keeping her hands on Donna’s shoulders, stroking her hair repeatedly. She found herself looking into eyes that bulged in the sockets, eyes criss-crossed by veins.

  Eyes without any semblance of hope.

  At twenty-eight Donna was a year older than Jackie, but her face might have belonged to a person of forty. Beneath her puffy eyes the skin looked bruised, the lids themselves swollen. Her nose was red, her cheeks untouched by make-up. Her hair was unkempt, tangled like intertwined lizard-tails. Two nails were broken on her right hand and another chewed down as far as the tip of the finger. Her face was tear-stained and Jackie could see patches on Donna’s sweatshirt and jeans. She thought the dark stain on her thigh was blood.